


December 21, 2012

by NervousAsexual (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Pre-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-04 23:20:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11001108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/NervousAsexual
Summary: A mildly sci-fi story, about friends and boredom and the end of the world. Loosely inspired by a canon short story whose title escapes me.





	December 21, 2012

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on ff.net. according to my notes I wrote this five entire years ago. we were all so innocent then...

“Watson,” Sherlock Holmes said to me that evening, closing his book and looking sharply at me by the firelight, “it is time.”

“I suppose that is wonderful, Holmes,” I told him. “Though I would be lying if I claimed to know what you meant.”

My companion did not answer directly, but instead leaped from his chair and began to rush about the room, grabbing a luggage from one corner and crossing to the other to deposit into it his chemistry set.

“A favor, old chap,” he said. “Would you fetch the violin?”

I did as he asked, and wondered aloud if he might play for me a bit of Mendelssohn. He declined. “Not now, old chap. Have you any idea of the date?”

I admitted that the time must have slipped my mind.”

“It is December twenty-first, two thousand and twelve.”

This came as a bit of a shock. “So late?”

“Were you aware, Watson,” he said, jamming the violin into his bag, “of a South American tribe of natives, informally called the Mayans?”

Indeed I had.

“There is a tradition among the Americans that they must fall into panic at the wisdom of the ancients. You see, Watson, the Mayans believed that the world will end on a Friday.”

“I do wish I knew what you were driving at, Holmes,” I told him, following him into his bedroom, where he commenced flinging his clothing into the bag by the drawerful.

“Specifically, this Friday. According to these Mayans, the world simply runs out of days.”

“Surely you don’t believe this Doomsday nonsense, Holmes.”

“I don’t have to believe it. I am leaving the earth today.”

I did not give my actions much thought. With his mood swings and opium addiction in mind, I tackled him to the ground.

“Not suicide,” he said, wriggling free. “I mean the planet. It occurred to me today, old chap—people have lost all of their inventiveness. They are no longer outré, Watson. They bore me.”

“I don’t understand. What do you intend to do?”

“Leave,” he said and dumped our evening meal in with the violin. “Leave and seek out amusement elsewhere. Would you care to join me?”

“Holmes,” I said, “you have lost your mind.”

“Not at all. Come on, dear fellow.”

“But my practice,” I stammered. “My wife!”

He said nothing but instead held out his hand. It was covered as usual, I saw, with small pieces of sticking plaster, which were stained by hard acids. But it was a familiar pattern and shades of color I knew, like a constellation I’d been watching for a long time. I took it, to shake, I thought, and we flew out of the window hand in hand.


End file.
